


Pomp and Circumstance

by kagedyams



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Graduation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:45:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6660664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagedyams/pseuds/kagedyams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuroo is graduating, and he takes the time to think of all the times he's been with Kenma and where to go now.</p><p>"I'm always one step behind"<br/>“So I’ll walk slower. I’ll wait for you, one year, four years, a decade, or an eternity. I’ll walk with you through your graduation, your college years, your first job, your first house, your first cat. And if I ever begin to overtake you, just reach out and grab my hand, and I’ll stop so we can walk side by side again. Please, let me walk by your side?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomp and Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kurokn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurokn/gifts).



> So sorry this is late (probably)! I rewrote this like 3 times and I'm still not happy with it, so I guess when I don't have as much of a time constraint I may go back and edit.
> 
> Tenses change in flashbacks, so sorry if it soudns weird, I haven't proof-read :P
> 
> Part of the HKQnet gift exchange!  
> http://kagedyams.tumblr.com

“Hey Tetsurou, come here a moment!”

 

There was the soft pattering of tiny feet, followed by a body sliding along the kitchen floor, nearly slipping in his too-big house slippers. He was big for a 6-year-old, filled with long legs and lanky arms. His cheeks were painted pink and his breath came out in tiny spurts, as if he had run a marathon instead of from the living room to the kitchen. His hair was an unruly mess of black hair, an enlarged cowlick sloping half of his hair upwards. Despite having his own room, Kuroo had an endearing habit of slipping into his parent’s bed at night, sidling in between their bodies and resting his head right in the nook where both of the pillows met. He usually woke up with his head under the pillows and his hair an untamable mess.

 

“What’re you doing, okaa-san?” Kuroo asked curiously, leaning his body to the right to catch a glimpse of his mom bend over, oven knits equipped, as she pulled a tray from the oven. “Are those cookies!?” His eyes lit up, golden flecks reflected in the fluorescent kitchen light. He reached for one, only for his tiny hand to be smacked away.

 

“Testu, you’re gonna burn your hand if you try to eat one now! And this is for the new family moving in next door, I don’t want any little cookie monsters trying to sneak a bite,” Kuroo’s mother said sternly, wagging her finger as her son pouted.  The soba noodles were still cooking, and Kuroo dejectedly thought that those were also going to be given to the newcomers.

 

“I bet the new people are boring old people,” Kuroo said glumly, kicking his foot against the floor distractedly. The back of his house slipper detached from his heel, the shoe hanging by his toes.

 

“Now Tetsu, that’s not a nice thing to say. I hear they have a boy about your age, so you’re going to come with me to give them their housewarming gift,” Kuroo’s mother bent down to his height, doting smile pulling at her lips as her hand ruffled Kuroo’s already disastrous hair. Kuroo pulled back, still unconvinced.

 

“He’s probably a baby who can’t even walk and cries at everything!” Kuroo protests, sticking his tongue out for emphasis.

 

Kuroo’s mother sighed, closing her eyes as she pulled out her trump card. “If you come with me I’ll give you a cookie,”

 

“I’ll come, I’ll come!”

 

~

 

The band starts up, the trumpets blaring out the beginning notes for  _ Pomp and Circumstance,  _ the chords echoing into the hallway where all the third-years are lined up. At the start of the song, the first homeroom precedes, neat rows of two marching with precise steps into the awaiting crowd. Kuroo ignores the trepidation coiling in his gut, clenching his abdominal muscles and causing brief panic to flare up in his brain. Class 2 begins to leave for their own seating, and Kuroo finds himself grateful to be in the fifth and final class.

 

There’s a harsh sting inflicted to his back, and Kuroo jumps in his shoes, turning his body rapidly to find Yaku leveling him with a glare. His homeroom teacher has positioned the libero directly behind him, and Kuroo can feel his heated glower boring into his upright-standing hair since they first lined up. “Ow man, what gives?” Kuroo reaches an arm back, massaging at the affliction.

 

Yaku crosses his arms; pout contouring his lips as the last of Class 2 leaves, the third homeroom teacher beginning to lead her students out into the gym. “You’re way too tense. You gotta lighten up, Captain.” He uses the nickname more tauntingly than anything, a challenge igniting in his brown irises that tempts Kuroo to snap back to his laid-back and sardonic self. “Buck up before you embarrass yourself in front of the parents and the second-years,” Yaku finishes.

 

The third class has departed, and Kuroo watches through his peripheral as Kai moves along with his class. Kuroo feels that consternation return as he realizes his would be the next to go up. He swallows it in favor of smirking down at Yaku, “I am the absolute  _ epitome  _ of calm and light, Yaku,” he refutes, raising his hands as if to prove his words. He catches the girl standing to his right giggle into her hand, light blush tinting her cheeks when she notices she caught the attention of the graduating boy. Strange.

 

Yaku scoffs, crossing his arms at Kuroo’s statement. “Just try not to mess up when they call your name,” he teases, settling into line as the homeroom teacher motions they start moving, leading them out and into the crowd.

 

The rest of the third-years are seated, backs stiff in the folding chairs as they await the end of the procession. The second-years are in the back with the parents, watching respectfully as they imagine their own graduation in a year. The first-years, as always, are excluded from the ceremony due to spacial constraints. The class moves down their row, situating themselves orderly as the homeroom teacher sits with the rest of the teachers in the front. The band quiets, and the Dean of Students arrives for opening remarks.

 

Kuroo finds the entire ordeal excessive and boring, lapsing into short hazes of half-consciousness as the Dean and the principal drone on about Nekoma character and the  _ vast  _ accomplishments of the student body. He fidgets uncomfortably, the chair causing his butt to go numb and his back hurt from his attempts to keep it straight. Throughout the ceremony, he feels the eyes of the girl next to him trained on him, brown irises scrutinizing him as he readjusts his position for the umpteenth time. Kuroo finally looks to her, and the girl’s eyes widen before she turns away to face the stage, where the principal is reading off the names of the graduates.

 

“Kimura Ayame”

 

_ “Hai!”  _ the girl stands, hands shaking with nerves as she addresses the front. She sits hurriedly before the next name is called.

 

“Kuroo Tetsurou”

 

_ “Hai, _ ” Kuroo calls, rising to his feet slowly as he blinks at the principal. The principal nods and Kuroo drops back into his seat.

 

“Matsumoto Sakurako”

 

“ _ Hai,” _

 

“Yaku Morisuke”

 

“ _ Hai,” _

 

It continues until all the names are called, and the speeches given by various people. Kuroo zones out for the majority of it, but he can tell that some are particularly moving by the reflection of tears in the girl next to him—Kimura’s—eyes.  She begins to run a hand along her tear-stained eyes when Kuroo stops her, reaching into his pocket to grab the handkerchief stuffed in there.

 

“Here,” he offers, extending the handkerchief to Kimura. She lowers her hand in surprise, looking at Kuroo with reddened cheeks and puffy eyes.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, trying her best not to disturb the current speech (given by a second-year), as she dabs at her eyes with Kuroo’s handkerchief.

 

The ceremony ends to thunderous applause and the band kicking off. Parents begin to rise from their seats, wiping the tears from their eyes as they approach their graduating children. Kuroo scans the crowd, opting to look for a familiar face to talk to. Yaku is busy being coddled by his parents, so he searches instead for Kenma or Yamamoto amongst the second-year crowd.

 

His search is halted when he feels a tug on the back of his jacket. Turning around, he’s faced by Kimura, her cheeks still dyed pink despite her tears having been wiped away. When she notices his attention on her, she starts slightly and averts her gaze downwards.

 

“I just wanted to thank you for letting me use your handkerchief,” she mutters, voice quiet as she talks down to the floor. “I-it’s kind of dirty, so I’ll wash it and return it. Oh! But we’re graduating, so I guess it’d be kind of hard to return it… Maybe I could—“ she babbles onwards, and Kuroo’s convinced she’d talk herself out of air if he didn’t stop her; so he does, resting a hand against her shoulder and smiling. She jumps, raising her gaze to meet him.

“It’s okay, you can keep it. It’s just a handkerchief,” Kuroo shrugs; dropping his hand once he notices how Kimura’s eyes widen.

 

“Oh! Oh, thank you, Kuroo-san, really.” She looks down at the piece of cloth in her hands, damp from her tears and smudged with light presses of makeup. Before Kuroo can back away or talk again, she looks back up, expression steeled and her mouth twists in determination. “I also have to ask you something, Kuroo-san!” Kimura exclaims, eyebrows furrowing, taking Kuroo aback slightly. He nods, a gesture for her to continue. “Please let me have your second chest button.”

 

A few people around them quiet down, looking on as Kimura stares with steely resolve, blush prominent on her cheeks as both she and the curious onlookers await the answer. Kuroo’s eyes widen imperceptibly, unused to being asked such a question. Kimura sat directly behind Kuroo in class, but they barely ever spoke unless Kuroo had turned around to ask to borrow a pencil.

 

He can’t help but admit she’s cute, he thinks to himself as he mulls over a response. Objectively, Kuroo could say that she was his type; long brown hair that pools around her midriff, currently pinned back by various hair ornaments, brown eyes that shimmered in the aftermath of tears. She pulls a strand of stray hair behind her ear, and Kuroo sees a small bob of blonde hair moving through the crowd. He looks to Kimura, apologetic smile overtaking his face.

 

“I’m really sorry, but I promised it to someone else already. Excuse me,” he bows, not waiting to watch as her face falls and tears prick her eyes as he moves through the crowd, chasing that blonde streak.

 

~

 

The new neighbors had moved into the house at the end of Kuroo’s street, a traditional Japanese-styled home that was previously left abandoned when the former tenant, a quiet old lady who couldn’t leave her house, relocated to a nursing home. Since her departure, major reconstructions had taken place, including new Shoji screens lining the house and the addition of a veranda running along the eastern side of the house. The antique design of the house felt bizarrely out-of-place in comparison to the modernized architecture of the neighborhood, and Kuroo wasn’t alone in the thought as to why they hadn’t just rebuilt the old house.

 

“Can I ring the doorbell, okaa-san?” Kuroo asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking up from where he was gripping onto her thigh. She nodded approvingly, juggling both the cookies and the soba noodles in her arms. Excited, Kuroo reached up on his tiptoes and pressed his finger into the ovular button.

 

A melodious chime resounded from just beyond the screen. Kuroo waited a moment. Nobody opened the door. He pressed the doorbell again. Still, nobody came after 2 seconds so he rang it again. He rang it until the chimes of the doorbell overlapped each other in a cacophony of high octave ringing. He continued to press down on the button until he felt a knee hit his side, followed by a scolding “Tetsurou, no.” Finally, the door slid open.

 

Kuroo stepped back a little in surprise, retreating to his mother’s side as a young woman appeared. Her dark hair was tied up in a loose bun, stray strands framing a petite and pale face. A gentle smile set off deep dimples when she caught sight of Kuroo’s mother, laden in gifts, as she descended in a customary bow.

 

“You must be Kozume-san. I’m Kuroo Rima; I live just down the street. Welcome to the neighborhood.” Kuroo’s mom greeted, extending the gift to the woman.

 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Kuroo-san. Please, would you like to come in for tea?” She asked.

 

Accepting her request, the two newcomers stepped into the house. Rima handed Kozume-san the goods while she and Kuroo toed off their shoes, following her into the house to the living room where she placed the goods on a low-standing table directly in the middle.  “How old is your boy?” Kozume-san asked as she set a kettle over the stove, flicking on the heat. Rima nudged her son, urging him to introduce himself.

 

“I’m Kuroo Tetsurou and I’m 7 years old!”  He proclaimed, straightening his back even though Kozume-san couldn’t see him.

 

“Oh really? I have a son just a year younger than you. He’s probably hiding in his room or something,” she started, turning her attention away from the kettle and towards the hallway, “Kenma, come over here, we have company!”

 

As Kozume-san poured the boiled water into long cups, there was the sound of a door clicking open and slowly padding feet moving down the hall. Kozume-san moved the cups onto a tray, moving towards the living room where both Kuroos were seated on the floor cushions resting beside the table. A small body appeared just behind Kozume-san and Kuroo’s eyes flickered as he craned his head, trying to glimpse around the legs that shielded the hiding form. Kozume-san stopped moving when she felt the small hands grip at her skirt, twisting her torso to get a better look.

 

“Kenma, there you are! Look here, the neighbors came to greet us, why don't you introduce yourself?” She asked, setting the tea down on the table and patting at a bed of straight black hair.

 

The boy stepped away from his mother, his hands toying with each other where they conjoined at his waist. His head was bent down, long strands of dark hair obscuring the view of his face. He finally raised his gaze, subjecting Kuroo to the view of thin golden eyes. “I-I’m Kozume Kenma, it’s a pleasure to meet you both.” He said, eyes locked on his scuffling toes as he muttered the greeting to the ground. Kozume-san nodded approvingly at her son’s welcome, turning her attention back to Rima.

 

“I’m really sorry my husband isn’t around to greet you, work’s been keeping him busy,” she said, nursing her steaming mug of tea between two dainty hands, palms pressed against the ridges in the cup as she brought it to her lips.

 

“Oh, it’s likewise for me, accounting is a trying career path, but it pays the bills.” They laughed lightly, and Kuroo grew bored quickly of their adult chatter and their soft sipping of steaming beverages. He watched as Kenma moved to sit in the corner, digging into his pocket and pulling out a rectangular box from his pocket. Interest piqued, Kuroo raised himself to his feet and advanced to the other boy.

 

“Is that a Game Boy?” Kuroo asked, hovering over Kenma’s huddled body. He didn't raise his head, only nodding slightly as he pressed at the buttons listlessly. Kuroo adjusted himself so he was sitting next to Kenma, back resting against the wall as he leaned over to watch the faded screen as Kenma moved his character. “What game are you playing?” He inquired.

“Pokémon Red,” Kenma answered, eyes not leaving his device as he engaged in a battle. Kuroo’s mouth shaped into an open-mouthed circle as he watched Kenma play, fingers deftly tapping at the buttons as he progressed.

 

“That’s so cool! My mom doesn’t let me play video games, says it rots my brain.” He answered dully, sticking out his bottom lip. Kenma finally looked up, golden eyes observing him coolly as his fingers stopped roving the buttons.

 

“Do you want to play?” He asked, extending the game gingerly. Kuroo’s eyes widened, shock overtaking him before a toothy smile overtook his features as he grabbed the Game Boy, pulling it close to him to watch the screen.

 

“Really? You’re the best, Kenma-san!” Kuroo exclaimed, experimenting with the buttons as his Trainer moved in circles around the screen.

 

“You use the arrows to move the Trainer, and if you go into those patches, Pokémon will attack you,” Kenma began to instruct, gesturing to the screen to accentuate his meaning. Kuroo nodded, his tongue sticking out between his teeth as he concentrated on the game before him.

 

They stayed in that corner, Kenma quietly instructing Kuroo how to play the game, until the tea had cooled and Kuroo’s mom had announced they had to leave for dinner.

 

“Can I come over and play with you again sometime, Kenma?” Kuroo had asked, eyes hopeful and smile big.

 

“Of course, Kuroo-san,” he had responded, edges of his lips hinting at a smile as he tugged a stray hair behind his ear.

 

~

 

Kuroo pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning countless faces to chase that blonde trail. He thinks he can glimpse him, disappearing behind a corner of the school, and he moves to pursue.

 

“Ke—“

 

“Hey, hey, if it isn't the man of the hour!” A voice cuts through the half-uttered name, a crushing weight on Kuroo’s side accompanying it. On second look, he can see that Yamamoto had thrown himself onto Kuroo, wrapping his arms around Kuroo’s neck. “Oh Captain, my Captain, I can’t believe you’re graduating!” Yamamoto pretends to cry, blowing his nose exaggeratingly into his own handkerchief.

 

“Ease off, Yamamoto” Kuroo scowls, extricating himself from Yamamoto’s death grip. His eyes shift to the corner, but there’s nobody there anymore. “I’m not technically your captain anymore either, Ace.”

 

“You’re still the captain of my heart, Captain,” Yamamoto holds a hand to his heart as he pretends to swoon, his other hand fanning his face. “Speaking of hearts, I saw your whole thing with Kimura-san. What’s the deal man, she’s like, the prettiest third-year in Nekoma!” Yamamoto cries indignantly.

 

Kuroo shrugs, eyes roving to where his ordeal with Kimura went down. There was only a tight circle of girls left in his wake, probably to comfort the rejected girl. “She wasn’t really my type,” he brushes Yamamoto off.

 

“ _Not really your type!?_ Kuroo, dude, Kimura Ayame is _everyone’s_ type.”

 

Kuroo sighs, having grown jaded of their conversation before Yamamoto had even first opened his mouth. “We’re graduating, it doesn’t matter. Excuse me,” he says, pushing away a confused Yamamoto as he moves to the other side of the school, disappearing beyond a corner.

 

~

 

“Kenma! What’re you playing?”

 

He was sprawled on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around a large cat plush, a gift from Kuroo for Kenma’s 8 th birthday last week.  He was nursing his Game Boy Advance, eyes trained on the screen as he pressed on the keys. He didn’t look up to reply, already widely used to Kuroo’s sudden appearances.

 

“Crash Bandicoot,” His answer elicited a pleased squawk from Kuroo as he cannonballed himself next to Kenma, landing on his stomach on the floor directly beside his friend.

“Didn’t you just start Fire Emblem yesterday?” Kuroo eyed him suspiciously.

 

“Beat it last night.” Kenma answered, nonplussed, as his pale fingers tabbed at the buttons.

“As expected from the gaming genius, huh? Hey, wanna hear something cool? I was watching a volleyball match last night; I saw some really awesome moves that I want to try out. Help me practice?” He rolled onto his side, finger prodding Kenma’s stomach as he posed his question. Kenma’s only response was a noncommittal grunt.

 

“It’s the middle of October, Kuroo-san, we can’t practice outside.” Kenma responded, effortlessly clearing the area in his game.

 

“Come on, it’s not that cold out! And I told you to drop the  _ –san  _ already, Kenma, we’ve been best friends for, like, over a year now. I dropped the honorifics for you a while ago,” Kuroo continued his protestation.

 

“I never asked you to drop it, Kuroo-san.” Kenma muttered to himself.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I said we could go out after I beat this level,  _ Kuroo,”  _ Kenma grit out.

 

Kuroo seemed content with that, resting his messy head of hair in the curve of Kenma’s back while he waited for Kenma to finish with his game. After five minutes of impatient waiting, Kuroo finally thought to ask.

 

“Kenma, does your game even have levels?”

 

Silence.

 

“Yes”

 

Kuroo rolled over so his face was planted in the cotton of Kenma’s shirt. “Ken _ maaaa, _ ” Kuroo groaned, voice muffled by the material. Kenma shifted, distracted by his friend, prompting him to get a  _ Game Over. _ With an exasperated sigh, he pulled himself up, causing Kuroo to fall off his back and hit his head on the floor. He scowled at Kenma, rubbing his forehead underneath his mass of hair. “What was that for?” He crowed, indignant.

 

“You wanted to go practice your volleyball, right?” Kenma asked as he straightened out his askew shirt. A smile split across Kuroo’s face as he hoisted himself up, grabbing Kenma’s wrist and pulling him out into the outdoors.

 

They didn’t come inside until the chilly October air had permeated their coats and their noses were dripping and red.

 

~

 

The voices from the reception fades, lost in the distance Kuroo has put between him and the ceremony. His pace is fast, and his slacks feel tight against his thighs where perspiration accumulates under his mounting anxiety. He saw him, right? That was him, right? Kuroo can swear upon the golden strands that flitted around the corner, almost as if running away.

 

He almost runs right past him, and he would’ve if Kuroo didn’t know him for so many years, figuring out his habits and traits piece by piece. He is in a very Kenma-like spot, in an eastern-facing nook which shades against the afternoon sun. It casts a long shadow across his body, his hair cascading over his face and hooding his eyes. The only light is the flickering of his DSi, the only noise the distant revelry and the tapping of thumbs along buttons. Whether Kenma doesn’t realize his presence, or he refuses to recognize it, Kuroo can’t tell. But his eyes are glued to his screen, and the reflection of the screen is mirrored in his gold irises, lighting up the thin amber flakes littering the watery expanse. 

 

Kuroo moves forward, and Kenma’s gaze flickered upwards briefly, regarding him with disinterest before he mashes the buttons again, bottom lip held captive between his teeth as he struggles to defeat a foe. Kuroo leans against the wall Kenma’s resting his back against, feigning nonchalance as he glimpses the fight sequence in his game.

 

“Is that a new game?” Kuroo asks.

 

“Pokemon Black 2. Just came out.” Kenma responds in his usual short tone, but his voice sounds strained nonetheless. Kuroo tilts his head as he watches Kenma’s Servine faint.

“Missing my big day to play a game? Sounds just like you,” Kuroo teases, finding the pockets of his pants and resting his hands in the hole. 

 

“I left after the ceremony ended,” Kenma muttered, lips barely moving around the words as they fell from his lips.

 

“And you didn’t even come to congratulate me. I’m deeply wounded by your actions,” Kuroo extricates his digits from his pockets, moving them to grasp his chest in faux hurt.

 

“You were busy. With that girl,” Kenma’s hand slips on the arrow keys, prompting him to use a wrong item. He scowls.

 

“Kimura?” Kuroo questions, leaning the top half of his body away from the wall to look Kenma in the eye. Kenma disregards his probing gaze, hair drafting along his brow and obscuring his vision. Taking his silence for answer enough, Kuroo’s lip quirks upwards, separating the flesh enough to show pearly teeth. “Eh, is Kenma jealous I’m not spending time with him?” He teases, vaguely taking note of the pink hue overtaking his cheeks, barely visible against the bleached strands. Kenma flinches before pulling his DSi closer to his face, lowering his head and shielding his cheeks behind a veil of gold.

 

“I’m not jealous” Kenma denies, and Kuroo visibly deflates, smirk replaced by a pout as he pushes himself away from the wall, strutting in front of Kenma with too-big steps as his shadow descends upon the sitting boy. Kenma doesn’t look up, only curls his knees in towards his chest, resting his DSi against his pants-clad thighs.

 

Kuroo squats in front of Kenma, smiling despite himself as Kenma tries to reabsorb himself into his gameplay. “How can you even see anything through this mop?” Kuroo extends his hand, carding his fingers through Kenma’s hair, tugging it back so it rests behind his ear. Kenma glances up, pupils dilated as he searches Kuroo’s face, analyzing the way his eyelids flutter into a half lull, the upward tug of his mouth looking more earnest than teasing. “You really should invest in a haircut.”

 

Kenma frowns, glancing at a stray lock that extends down to his chin. He twists it in his finger, eyes moving away from Kuroo’s just for a second to examine it. “It’s such a pain to cut it,” he mutters disdainfully, dropping the strand so it falls back into place. His eyes move upwards again, past the amused twinkle in Kuroo’s eyes to rest on the bed of hair, a discourse of flyaway hairs traipsing amongst a bed of black. “Besides, isn’t that notion kind of counterintuitive? I never really understood how your hair got to be like that,” Kenma mutters, reminiscing over a memory years away as he finally moves his hand away from his game, Kuroo tilting his head down just enough so Kenma can rest his hand in the dense mass.

 

“It’s got a mind of its own.”

  
  


~

 

“Hey, Kuroo?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Why do you sleep like that?”

 

Kuroo rolled over, pulling the two pillows away from him so he could glance down at Kenma. It was their first sleepover, and Kuroo had turned out a spare futon for his friend to sleep on. Despite being friends for two years now, they hadn’t had a single sleepover. Kuroo pinned it on the fact that there was never a need, since their houses were 5 minutes apart from each other and they always visited each other’s houses.

 

Kuroo turned over the question in his head. Ever since he had stopped sleeping with his parents he had adopted this habit of pressing two pillows against either side of his head while he slept. Thinking it over logically now, he couldn’t remember the reason he did it in the first place. Maybe because it blocked out the Tokyo traffic and the noise outside, or the feeling of being entrapped by pillows soothed him. He shrugged, before realizing Kenma couldn’t see that in the darkness of his room.

 

“I dunno, it just kinda happens. It’s comfortable either way so…” he trailed off, unsure how to finish his statement. Kenma hummed softly, the only indication that he heard Kuroo.

 

“You wouldn’t have such bad bedhead if you didn’t sleep like that,” Kenma finally responded, the end of his sentence trailing off into a yawn as he shifted in his futon. Kuroo considered his friend’s words, and that night he had laid both pillows against the headboard and slept with his face burrowed in a sack of feathers.

 

True to Kenma’s words, his perpetual unilateral cowlick had eased the next morning, and Kuroo’s comb didn’t end up lost in the forest of black strands. Kenma’s first response to seeing Kuroo and his flattened hair was, “who are you?” and Kuroo figured he looked better like that.

 

Two days later he remembers why he slept like that in the first place.

 

His father was back from an overseas trip.  After a family dinner, Kuroo had insisted he show his dad all the new volleyball moves he had learned in his absence. His father, in reply, had shaken him off, insisting he had important work to do and setting Kuroo to practice alone. He bounced the volleyball off the siding of his house until the sun had set and Rima came out to call him to bed. Even then, the door to the office was shut and his father was missing.

Kuroo woke up that night to glass shattering. Since Kenma first slept over, he had been trying to sleep normally, the pillows propped against the headboard as he dozed off. The high-pitched crash caused Kuroo to start, jolting out of his unconsciousness as voices crept through the thin wood of his door.

 

“ _ A month long trip to Europe?  _ I don’t care if it’s for your work, you can’t leave us alone for that long!” He heard the crack in his mother’s voice, only present when she was fighting off tears. Kuroo felt goosebumps rise against his arm.

 

“It’s not something I can just say no to! Who else is here to help pay for this house and all your food and clothes and even Tetsurou’s shitty volleyball camp?” He flinched when he heard his name, biting and cold, as it leaked through the crack under Kuroo’s door and penetrated his ears, rolling around in his head. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and he habitually pulled his knees up into his chest.

 

“Tetsu is your son and you can at least be around long enough to support him. For God’s sake, Seiichi, at least spend some time with your own child!”

 

“What, I’m supposed to babysit a kid I didn't even want? Listen here, Rima, all you think about is—“ His words never reach Kuroo. They’re blocked by two puffed up rectangles, pulled from underneath Kuroo’s shaking form and pressed firmly against his ears. It muffles the ongoing argument, and Kuroo falls asleep to tear-stained sheets and incomprehensible murmurs.

 

~

  
  


Kuroo can feel Kenma’s hand quiver slightly, pressing against the unruly bed of hair near the front of his cranium, and it spurs him to raise his eyes. Kenma’s eyes are shut, the DSi has fallen from his lap, settling on its side with the screen half open, frozen in a Trainer battle. Kuroo can follow Kenma’s breathing through the thin fabric of his Nekoma school uniform, the vest rising and falling with his chest at a rapid rate. At this point, Kuroo can hear the staccato inhales of breath as Kenma struggles to fill his lungs with the necessary oxygen. Kuroo grabs at Kenma’s hand on his hair, holding it between his own two as he feels the shaking intensify.

 

“Kenma, hey, Kenma, open your eyes. Kenma, open your eyes and look at me, okay?” Kuroo prompts, gripping onto Kenma’s hand tighter. Kenma’s eyes are shut firmly, wrinkles around the corners of his eyes from the pressure. Kuroo can see the tears lining the corners, growing in size with each inhale. Kuroo, realizing its futility, releases Kenma’s hand, allowing it to fall to his lap where it quivers uselessly. Kuroo extends his hands, twisting them up to cup Kenma’s cheeks. His initial response is to flinch away, but the soft warmth emanating from every crease and callus in Kuroo’s palms prompts the lull in Kenma’s panic attack, his head pressing against Kuroo’s hands as the lines around his eyes smoothen out, relaxing. “It’s okay Kenma, I’m here, I’m always here for you,” Kuroo soothes, running his thumb along the heated flesh of Kenma’s cheek. Kenma hiccups, and a tear escapes his eye when he tries to open them.

 

“But… you won’t always be here. You’re g-graduating,” Kenma tries to say it evenly, but his voice catches on the last week as he’s caught on a sudden inhale, prompting more tears to fall. Kuroo’s eyes widen, and he’s about to interject, when Kenma surprisingly intervenes. “A-and I know I should be happy for you, but I just can’t. I don’t want to be alone again, I don’t want to be alone where its loud and bright and you’re not there.” Kenma’s breath is raspy, a hoarse whisper that delves into all of his greatest anxieties. 

 

Kuroo doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to, so he just slides his palms past Kenma’s cheeks and underneath his glossy hair, pressing softly against his ears.

 

~

 

Its warm for the end of March, and Kuroo found himself trudging through the first thunderstorm of the year.

 

There was a quiet sniffling behind him, muted by the pounding of rain against asphalt, but his ears have become attuned to everything Kenma and he can tell that Kenma’s crying, all silent whimpers and hushed snuffles. It’s after volleyball practice, but Kuroo hadn’t even made it through the first half of practice. While serving, Kenma had collided with another player, causing an unfortunate twist in his ankle which handicapped him. Kuroo had offered to take him home after he visited the nurse, because Kenma’s parents were out for the night and Kuroo knew better than to disrupt his mom over trivial things like this. So he’s resigned to carrying Kenma on his back, one shoe off and wrapped firmly in ice as he burrowed his face into the back of Kuroo’s jacket and cries. 

 

When the thunder first rolled in, Kuroo felt Kenma’s entire body freeze up. His muscles tensed and his breath caught in his throat, incapable of choking out another sob. It had been 8 years since they first met, and Kuroo was proud to call himself the master of analyzing Kozume Kenma. A flash, followed by a tumultuous crash, caused Kenma to yelp in surprise, his arms tightening their purchase on Kuroo’s neck and his knees digging into Kuroo’s sides. It’s still over a 5 minute walk home, and Kuroo’s arms and legs are tired from both practice and carrying Kenma the mile and a half long walk from school. Spotting the park they always passed, and occasionally played at, Kuroo made a beeline for it. 

 

There’s a large concrete tube on the side of the park, one that kids would always climb or run through, and that’s where Kuroo found reprieve. They trailed wet puddles into the cozy tube, and Kuroo shuffled directly into the middle of the tube before he helped Kenma down. It’s warm in the tube, but the chilled rain had already permeated their uniforms, dampening their skin and causing an unsuppressable shiver. With Kenma laid with his back against the side of the tube, Kuroo drops his bag and opens it, ruffling through.

 

“I think I have a towel or handkerchief or something… Ah!” Kuroo brandished a towel, the rain having not quite seeped into his bookbag and dampening all of his textbooks. “This should be clean… I think,” Kuroo shrugged, kneeling next to Kenma as he drapes the towel over Kenma’s hair, carefully pulling it along his locks to dry them. Raindrops fell from the tips, large  _ drips  _ against the concrete as puddles accumulated within their haven. 

 

Kenma didn’t say much as Kuroo ran the towel over his hair, wiping the drops from his chin and leaving it hanging around his neck. Kuroo almost thinks Kenma’s asleep, eyes draped shut and breathing light, but the clap of thunder causes Kenma to bolt up, eyes frenzied in ardent surprise. 

 

“Hey, hey, Kenma, it’s okay. It’s just thunder,” Kuroo tried to quell his fears, gripping his shoulder. Kenma’s response was to pull his knees towards his chest, his bandaged foot dragging along the floor and eliciting a wince. 

 

“The thunder’s loud, and the lightning’s bright, I don’t like it,” Kenma murmured, pressing his face into his knees, wrapping his arms around himself so they covered his ears. 

 

Kuroo doesn’t know how to respond to that. Kenma’s entered his own world, filled with nothing but an obsolete darkness and Kuroo can’t find his way in. So he sits next to his best friend, talking to him about volleyball and the entire life cycle of  _ Wolbalchia spp,  _ and he hopes his voice is enough to cancel out the thunder rumbling around them.

 

~

 

Kenma’s face flushes, his tears temporarily stoppered by Kuroo’s actions. With his ears blocked, Kuroo schools his expression as he says the three words he’s only told himself and the mirror.

 

“I love you,”

 

Kenma’s eyes widen, reading the slight utterance on his lips, eyes trained on the pinkened flesh as they move to form the words. It isn’t hard to guess what he’s saying, and Kenma isn’t Nekoma’s “Brain” for no reason. Kenma’s hands reach up, still shaking, as they grab both of Kuroo’s, pulling them away from his ears and squeezing them softly in his lap.

 

“I love you, I just… don’t like always being one step behind,” Kenma mutters to the ground, eyes trained on his abandoned DSi, wasting battery just slightly to their left. Neither of them could find it in themselves to care.

 

“So I’ll walk slower. I’ll wait for you, one year, four years, a decade, or an eternity. I’ll walk with you through your graduation, your college years, your first job, your first house, your first cat, your fucking tenth cat, even. And if I ever begin to overtake you, just reach out and grab my hand, and I’ll stop so we can walk side by side again. Please, let me walk by your side?” Kuroo implores, bringing their conjoined hands to his face, lips brushing tenderly along Kenma’s knuckles. They’re soft, unlike his own hands, bruised and callus-ridden. Kenma’s mouth opens, but all that comes out is a choked sobbed.

 

Without warning, Kenma lurches forward. His hands leave Kuroo’s in favor of wrapping around his waist, pulling his best friend close. Kuroo laughs mirthfully, pulling Kenma into his chest and kissing the top of his head, his forehead, his eyelids and his nose. 

  
It’s the first step towards something new, and Kuroo is glad he’s walking them with Kenma.


End file.
